Bag of Depravity
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Master of Death, Lover of Witches: Chapter 9
🕑 Added 2024-11-27 22:42:48 +0000 UTCA/N: Your boy has managed to get sick for the second time in two months. I don't know why my immune system has the structural stability of Swiss cheese right now, but it's annoying.
Chapters might be a bit light this week, maybe only three if it doesn't get better soon, because getting this one together was a major struggle.
Chapter 9
Nighttime Chat
Much later in the train trip, Harry and Lavender returned to their original compartment, now each in their Hogwarts robes. Like when they left, their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders. Unlike when they left, it was no longer about flirting, but keeping Lavender standing.
The blond collapsed back onto her seat with a heavy groan. Harry sat down beside her with an innocent smile. Demelza swallowed very thickly. Parvati looked intrigued.
Soon conversation started again— all ordinary things. When the train disembarked Harry walked the girls to a carriage, casting a quick charm to keep off the heavy rain, before saying goodbye and breaking away. Instead of riding with them, he picked out another group of three standing beside a different carriage, only a short distance away.
He didn’t count on how difficult getting over to them would prove to be. It was nearly a full five minutes before a voice asked, “Harry?”
Stumbling the last bit of the way, he looked up to find Neville Longbottom looking at him, standing beside a blond and redhead both with yellow ties.
“Hey there, Neville.” Harry straightened, catching his breath while glancing quickly over his shoulder. “Room for a fourth?”
“Of course! But, um, Harry? Why is your hair like that?”
Harry was already leaping into the carriage, yanking the door open on the way inside. He rapidly patted the seats beside him, gesturing for them to join him, which they did, albeit looking confused.
When the door was shut, Harry relaxed with a great sigh. “What was the question again?”
“Your hair,” Neville said, pointing.
Giving his wand a short wave, Harry conjured a hand mirror from thin air, making the other occupants jump. He turned it toward himself, studying his reflection.
He looked quite bedraggled. His spectacles were crooked on his face, while his scar was on complete display. The hair that often hung down over it was sticking straight up in the air, as if he were spotting the world’s messiest, least flattering mohawk.
Groaning, Harry quickly handed the mirror to Neville, who accepted it reflexively, and began to paw down his hair to flatten it.
“Not the best style I’ve ever rocked,” Harry admitted as he battled his hair. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“But how did it get that way?” asked the blond with the yellow tie.
Harry turned his attention to her, and the redhead sitting beside her. Both from Hufflepuff, both in his and Neville’s year, the two had been inseparable since the age of eleven. Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones were as close to each other as Harry was to Ron and Hermione.
Hannah was a cute girl on the chubbier side, with a stocky frame and the kind of cheeks made for a grandma to pinch. She was the blond, the one that asked Harry about his hair.
Susan was the redhead. She was very quiet at the moment, staring down at her lap. Nearly every boy in their year knew who she was, partially because of her gorgeous face but mostly because of another feature.
When Harry mentioned that Lavender’s chest wasn’t the biggest at Hogwarts, Susan was the one who had her beat. And it wasn’t even particularly close.
“The hairstyle was just from a couple of reunions,” said Harry. “I hadn’t seen some old friends in a long time, and they got more worked up than I expected.”
“It looked like something had been licking your hair,” Hannah said, appearing a touch horrified. “People did that?”
“No, no. Not people.”
There came a squeaking sound from the carriage window, as if windshield wipers had begun working on their highest setting. The other students jumped in their seats, staring at the window.
“Don’t open that,” Harry said.
“What is it?” exclaimed Susan, pointing.
“It’s so… long. And purple,” said Neville.
Hannah looked between them and the window, where she could see nothing except a strange swirling pattern in the water collected on the glass’s exterior. “What on earth are you both talking about?”
Harry just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“And right after I got my hair sorted again,” he mumbled angrily.
He looked at the offending window, where a thin and slippery purple muscle slid all over the glass, looking for a way inside. The appendage was multiple feet in length, stretching out of sight toward the front of their carriage. A moment later, an identical one smacked against the carriage’s other window.
“It’s the Thestrals,” Harry explained tiredly. “They’re as sweet as Kneazles once you get to know them. Thing is, Kneazles aren’t big enough to draw a carriage, and their tongues don’t extend up to fifteen feet.”
A suspicious thud sounded at the back end of their carriage, hinting that the Thestrals pulling the carriage behind them were trying just as hard to get a taste of Harry.
“Wait, you guys can see them too?” Susan asked.
Neville blushed. “My Granddad,” he said. “I saw him at the end. Ever since, they haven’t been invisible to me.”
“I didn’t watch any family members die,” said Harry. “Unfortunately.”
He didn’t elaborate any further. Susan hurried on.
“I told you I wasn’t crazy!” she said to Hannah. “They’re really real! They really are big horses that pull the carriages, with long wings and tight skin and… long tongues, apparently!”
Hannah looked at her, before casting her eyes suspiciously over Harry and Neville.
“Did she get you in on this?” Hannah asked. “Convince you to pretend there are demon horses pulling the carriages at all times?”
“They’re real!” Susan protested.
“Thestrals very much exist,” said Harry. “You have to watch someone die to see them, but once that’s done, they’ll never be invisible again. They’re very rare magical creatures.” He looked out the window. “And, apparently, they’re pretty persistent.”
The entire cabin rocked to the side. The girls shrieked. Hannah collided with Susan, who collided with the wall. Harry managed to hit his backside with a sticking charm, but wasn’t quick enough to get Neville, who bumped his head on the window.
Harry winced. “Sorry, Neville.”
While the boy was blinking stars out of his eyes, the cabin pitched sideways again, this time in the opposite direction. Harry got Neville attached to his seat, but the girls were still loose, and they slid back across their seats, wailing.
“What is happening?” Hannah moaned.
The whole cabin was pitching around nonstop now, shoved from a different angle every second. It felt like the wheels weren’t even touching the ground any longer.
“I think,” said Harry loudly, “that the Thestrals have really decided that they need to keep saying hello to me. Meaning that they want to kiss me with those long purple tongues, and they’re willing to break into this compartment to do it, if that’s what it takes.”
They were odd creatures. It was a shame, but they were commonly maligned as bad omens, just because most of the people who could see them were the type who knew tragedy a tad too well. But there was nothing unlucky about Thestrals. You just stood no chance of seeing one if you’d never seen someone die in front of you.
In his first life, Harry had gotten on pretty well with Thestrals, at least the well-trained herd that Hagrid kept. He and his friends rode them to the Department of Mysteries, while another was used in the Battle of Seven Potters. But it was only after he became the Master of Death that their attitudes changed from something like respect, into pure adoration.
Though, as the cabin shook, Harry considered that maybe ‘obsession' would be a better word.
“I’m sure they’ll calm down in a second—” he started to say.
Instead, they gave the carriage its hardest push yet, this time lifting from the front. Hannah and Susan's eyes widened as they flew forward, directly into the boys that were facing them.
Hannah fell spectacularly, so that her feet were the highest point on her body by the end, brushing the roof. She would have banged her head nastily, were it not for Neville, in a sudden burst of reflexes, catching his future wife by the sides.
The reward for his good deed was immediate, as, in the process, his head disappeared straight up the bottom of Hannah’s robes, while her thick thighs wrapped around his head.
For his part, Harry was currently drowning… Very happily, in the enormous bosom of Susan Bones.
With a great deal of regret, he quickly pulled his face out of Susan’s cleavage, settling the blushing girl into his lap in a less suggestive position.
He looked over at Neville, who was working to extricate himself from Hannah.
“Doing alright there Nev?” he asked.
“Better than alright,” Neville muttered, looking quite like he was trying to figure out if this was all a dream. Harry wondered how hard he had hit his head earlier if he was saying that out loud.
As Hannah was being helped around by the gallant Gryffindor, Harry turned his attention to Susan. The redhead was sitting sideways across his lap now, holding onto his arms as they kept her from flying back across the cabin.
“Are you alright?” Harry whispered.
Susan, blushing redder than her hair, nodded very fast.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll make it up to you sometime. Promise.”
Even if he hadn’t caused it directly, it wasn’t like she asked to end up in his lap, and this whole thing traced back to the Thestrals acting up in the first place. Quietly, Harry shut his eyes.
He hadn’t wanted to resort to this, because the death-horses were only trying to be nice, but at a certain point enough was enough. He grabbed a hold of his magic, forever changed by the Hallows’ effects on him. Instead of casting a spell, he simply let off what amounted to an explosion, one you would have to be a magical creature to sense.
Shrieks erupted all around the carriage. Harry’s back hit the cushions as they accelerated faster than a car. Creaking spokes were audible out the windows as all the Thestrals matched the insane pace, completely forgetting about breaking inside to pay Harry a visit.
He had probably scared them, which didn’t feel good. He would have to make it up to them later somehow, like he promised to Susan.
Speaking of the red-haired witch, Harry let go of her now that they weren’t in any more danger of flying around. Rather than return to her seat, Susan chose to stay on his lap. She was still blushing and wouldn’t meet his eyes, but she didn’t move, even when Hannah slipped back across the carriage.
Eventually, all of the carriages reached the castle. As soon as the occupants were out, Thestrals pulled them away with just as much speed as they used to reach the castle, fleeing into the night. Harry and Neville remained with the Hufflepuff girls until the moment they broke apart to join the Gryffindors. With skill that was growing quickly through all the practice he was getting, Harry replaced his doppleganger seamlessly, coming to stand beside Ron and Hermione when nobody was looking.
The feast turned out rather ordinary, all things considered. At least compared to the ride up to the castle. It went about how Harry remembered it, down to the protests when Dumbledore announced there would be no Quidditch, and the raucous cheers as he revealed the Triwizard Tournament’s return.
Dumbledore. Harry stared up at the aged headmaster, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
He saved the man last time. It was only natural, when he got to the Resurrection Stone first, purging the Hallow of Voldemort’s soul and adding it to his collection. There had been no need for Dumbledore to fight Voldemort personally, when Harry was already more than the Dark Lord’s match. So the Headmaster survived, though not for very long.
It turned out his time had been approaching anyway. Harry had been there when he passed, standing beside his bed with the remains of the Order’s core. It wasn’t a tragedy, merely reality. Harry thought it was the greatest mercy possible for the old man.
He didn’t… His relationship with Dumbledore was complicated. The headmaster placed him with the Dursleys, yet that was one of the reasons Harry survived. He faced so many dangers under the man’s watch, here in these halls. And, again, he survived. The plots and plans were exhausting. They made you feel like a chess piece on the board. But Harry refused to be so shortsighted that he would deny everything the man did for him.
Really, with such complex feelings, there was only one way to resolve this properly.
That in mind, he pushed aside his dinner plate and leaned forward, planting his forehead on the smooth wood.
“Er, Harry?” Ron asked. “What’cha doing there?”
“Resting up,” Harry said, his eyes closed.
“At dinner?”
Based off his tone, the redhead thought that was the most ludicrous idea he’d ever heard, which to him it probably was. Nothing — nothing — came between Ronald Weasley and a full plate of food.
“Yes,” said Harry. “Dinner seems like the best time for it, all things considered.”
And he drifted off, catching what sleep he could before a prefect shook him, making sure he was prepared for the late night he was about to have.
O-O-O
There was a lot of gossip, among bored witches and wizards, about just how the great Albus Dumbledore must live. They pointed to his flashy outfits and argued, based on that, that his private quarters must be bedazzled in at least six different ways with walls painted every primary color. They were wrong.
Dumbledore lived in a deceptively normal room tucked deep inside Hogwarts. It had a fireplace with a cozy chair beside it, where he liked to sip warm drinks in the cold months. His bed was only big enough to fit one, because Dumbledore was a man who had chosen to face life alone, and had been that way for a very long time. In addition to these things he had one bookshelf, a dresser, and a portrait frame through which an old headmaster of years past could fetch him in case of emergency.
Very few ever saw the inside of this space. Dumbledore himself, or course, and beyond that only his most trusted colleagues, Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick. Privacy was an old habit of the Headmaster’s, leftover from the days of his youth.
Now, another person had been added to the list.
Albus Dumbledore awoke without moving. He was tucked snugly beneath his blankets, aching old bones as content as they ever got these days. He opened his eyes slowly. His wand was beneath his pillow, perfectly in reach. Another old habit.
“I should warn you,” he said, “that despite my looks and age, I am not completely senile yet. Nor am I willing to die.”
“Oh death gets all of us,” a voice said dismissively. “Well, almost all of us. Only the really, really unlucky ones can’t even manage that.”
Dumbledore still did not move. He remained laying in bed; though his fingers twitched.
“If you wanted to hold a philosophical discussion, there were better venues to choose,” he said.
“That’s not what I’m here for,” said the voice. “Just what conversations with you inevitably seem to devolve into.”
“You seem to know me. But I do not know you. I confess, that leaves me at quite the disadvantage.”
“Oh. Right. That was rude of me.”
It was nearly silent, almost imperceptible, but Dumbledore’s ears had been trained for such things over more than a century. He heard a wand being raised.
He was sitting up in an instant, just a blur of hot-pink pajamas until the elder wand was extended from his boning fingers. his joints shrieked at him, but they put up with his greedy demands for now.
As quickly as he sat up, Dumbledore felt himself freeze. He had not been hit with a body-binding spell, though the effects were quite similar.
As he pointed the elder wand at the intruder, now illuminated by the light of a simple Lumos as he sat in Dumbldore’s armchair, the masked man pointed two of them back at him.
“You’re outgunned for once, headmaster,” they said. “Please. I’d really not like to fight right now.”
“Impossible,” Dumbledore breathed.
The intruder looked down at the wands in his hands. “I really wish you were right. It should be impossible, and I reckon I’d be happier if it were, yet here I am. So I guess we can settle and call it improbable.”
He leaned back in his seat, and then, with a great sigh that sounded so weary Dumbledore half expected to find it had come from his own lips, the intruder lowered both wands.
“See?” he said. “Let’s talk. That’s all I want.”
The stranger was dressed confusingly, wearing regular trousers but lacking a shirt altogether, appearing more like a muggle at the end of a wild night out than as a proper wizard. Adding to this impression was the black cloth mask pulled over his face. When he finished taking in the stranger’s appearance, Dumbledore lowered his own wand, reaching to his bedside table and affixing his spectacles under his pointed nightcap.
“So,” said the headmaster, gazing down his nose at the intruder. “Who are you?”
The man laughed. “I thought you’d know already, to be honest.”
“Going by the mask… and the lack of clothes… I would say you’re the one who proudly called himself Tom Riddle. But that is not your name, just one that you took. I know Tom Riddle. You are not he.”
“Yeah, well, that’s actually the reason I wanted to talk to you.”
The stranger tapped his foot on the floor, looking down and taking his time. It was the kind of behavior Dumbledore was used to seeing in students. If he strained his ears, the voice did sound familiar… But surely something like that was impossible?”
“You know who Tom Riddle really is,” said the stranger. “By my count, there’s probably four people alive who can say that. You, who’s been alive for this long. Lucius learned about it from the diary. Slughorn knows because of the Horcruxes, and I’m betting Bellatrix figured it out. Maybe a couple other members of the Inner Circle, but this is all guesswork. The point is, if you come out and say that I’m not Tom and that I’m nothing but a loony imposter, people are going to believe you. I’m asking you personally, here, from the bottom of my heart, don’t. Just keep quiet about this one thing. Whatever else you want to do, how you want to fight this war, have at it. But let me have this!”
“You’re aware, then, of what exactly you have done.” Dumbledore slid his spectacles further down his nose. “You know much. Too much, I’m tempted to say. Who are you?”
“Do you want a funny fake name, or an accurate fake name?”
“I take it your real name is not on offer?”
The intruder shrugged. Despite himself, Dumbledore chuckled.
“I will take the accurate fake name, in that case.”
“Call me Mod,” said the stranger.
“An… interesting name.”
“It better be,” said Mod. “I spent a whole ten seconds coming up with it.”
Dumbledore leaned forward in his bed, squinting. “I suppose the question then, Mod, is why you are so hellbent on making a mistake like this.”
The room was completely quiet, buried in the depths of Hogwarts with just the two of them, a single lumos spell casting arcs of light over each of their faces.
“The real Tom Riddle does not do things by halves, and to him, insults are the most serious business there is. You are playing with his name, and if he gets a hold of you, he will not let you die quickly for something like that.”
Mod glanced down at the wands on either side of him.
“Let him try,” he said.
“I don’t mean to belittle you. You’re clearly in possession of an extreme set of skills. But there have been those who were confident they could handle Voldemort before. They are not here now.”
“Excluding you.”
“My secret,” said Dumbledore heavily, “is that I have never been confident.”
“Fair,” said Mod. “Let me worry about Voldemort’s anger. You don’t have to do anything differently. Hell, you can even try to stop me when I really get things going, because I can tell you now, you’re going to have problems with how I do things. But if you reveal that my identity is fake, you’ll only be helping the real Tom. Whatever else you do, I know you don’t want that.”
“We could work together,” Dumbledore suggested. “You clearly have no love for dark wizards. Together, we would stand a better chance of stopping Voldemort, before he can bring more harm.”
But Mod shook his head.
“Been there, done that,” he said cryptically.
The light from the lumos that he cast went out abruptly, plunging the room into darkness. When Dumbledore lit candles all over the room with a swipe of his wand, the masked stranger was gone.
And so was the chair he’d sat in.
“I liked that recliner,” Dumbledore muttered forlornly.
And then he went back to bed, pondering this strange new player in such a deadly game, right up until the moment sleep took him once more.
